More Than Hate You (More Than Words)

I’m about to give up when… There. Second from the bottom. I spot a picture marked as David V. Smith, VP of Tech Development, and team—all of whom are men except a woman standing off to one side, in profile, helping a family in need.

Sloan isn’t what I expected. Yes, she’s young. And she’s petite but not delicate. It’s no surprise she’s got a sharp jaw and a determined profile…but her slightly parted lips look unbearably soft. Her hair is tucked professionally at her nape, yet the style isn’t at all severe. Instead, she’s roped her tresses into a thick twist that starts at her forehead and follows her hairline before gently tucking into an artless bun. And despite her cool alabaster skin against a stark gray shirt, she looks almost warm.

I’m struck by the image. I can’t put my finger on the reason, except she’s a handful of subtle contradictions. From talking to her, I know she’s a matter-of-fact ball-buster, but in this shot, I see an unguarded moment of unexpected vulnerability on her face.

I want to know what’s behind that.

At least I know exactly what Rogan meant when he said Sloan looks as Irish as she sounds because her hair is as red as the blood now rushing to my cock.

Fuck.

Down the hall, my cell phone rings. Who the hell would be calling at this hour?

I glance at the time on my computer screen. Holy shit, how have three hours passed?

Running to my home office, I grab my phone and glance at the display, which confirms my suspicions. “Sorry I’m late, Evan.”

“You coming?”

I can picture him now, standing in front of the gym, wondering where the hell I am. “Yep. I’ll be there in fifteen.”

“You all right? You sound distracted.”

“Yeah. Absolutely. Just doing some research.”

“About?”

“The enemy.”

“Good. You can tell me all about it on the StairMaster. I’ll be off it by the time you get here.” He sounds gleeful about that.

“You evil son of a bitch.”

“In the gym? Always. But if you tell me good things about your progress with Reservoir, I might go easy on you.”

“You’re lying.”

He laughs. “You know me well.”

I do, which is why I know he’s counting on me to do the dirty work. “I’ll come through.”

“I know you will, buddy. Thanks.”

March 9

Less than twenty-four hours go by before I have a provisional copy of Reservoir’s previous year’s financial statement in my inbox. Shane couldn’t manage to complete it since the year started more than two months ago. Sloan got it done in a day.

The woman has crossed my mind too much lately. It’s not smart, but my respect for her ticks up another notch.

Unfortunately, I don’t even get to thank her before all hell breaks loose at Stratus. A stomach bug makes its rounds through our offices at the same time one of Wynam’s reps reaches out to request both a product demonstration and a virtual meeting—the first major hurdle in doing business with the UK giant.

And wouldn’t you know it, but Evan is upchucking everything except his toe nails.

I rally the troops, gathering the necessary people. We work nearly round the clock to put together a presentation that’s exactly what Michael Astor, Wynam’s CEO, needs. Nia, bless her, throws herself into the project—half as much to make sure it gets done as to stay away from her puking husband.

“I don’t need this virus to make me toss my cookies,” she says tartly as she strokes her slightly rounding stomach. “The baby does that for me most days anyway.”

Things don’t get any easier when, on Thursday at nine p.m.—eight the following morning in London—Evan is finally well enough to slide into the office. He looks like shit, but he reads what we’ve prepared, jots a few notes, and sips a glass of water while I zip through his changes.